


turn my headphones up real loud

by mesatrafficlights



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, ghoul is sad and angry and is playing acoustic guitar, i am definitely not projecting onto ghoul, i guess?, this is soft, tw for intrusive thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesatrafficlights/pseuds/mesatrafficlights
Summary: "His fingers aren’t meant for music: they’re calloused and scarred, perfect for making bombs or offing Dracs, but when they touch the strings they’re gentle and a bit clumsy.  He just plays whatever sounds nice, rough fingers shakily shifting from fret to fret. There’s no melody worth speaking of, but a comforting rhythm slowly finds its way out of the untuned notes."
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	turn my headphones up real loud

**Author's Note:**

> well shit guess i'm writing danger days fic again! i haven't written anything in literal years so pls be kind? hang out on tumblr with me @mesatrafficlights! i'm bored! and very lonely!

It’s late. The sunset’s fading, leaving faded streaks of ice-cream orange and yellow that lazily slide from view, slowly melt into the darkness of desert nights. This is about the time the Girl gets tucked into bed by Jet, and Kobra starts lighting candles to try futilely to ward off the dark and the bad luck, and Poison sits down with his back against a wall and knocks back some godawful excuse for what, even at best, barely passes for liquor in the Zones. Ghoul would usually join them. He almost always does, but tonight’s.. one of those nights. Not like anything awful’s happened, for once, but he’s just shaken. 

It’s idiotic, he knows, but his stupid fuckin’ head keeps rewinding the stupid fuckin’ broken VCR tape of his brain with a little “vwrrrrp!” noise and he keeps seeing the flash of dry desert sun glinting off the silver and white of the Dracs’ cars and gunbarrels and masks. ‘S not like he’s scared, for chrissake, he’s Fun Ghoul, he’d walk backwards into hell for laughs if it pissed someone off enough, but he’s just angry. And tired.  
He lets his head fall back against the door of the Trans-Am with a thump and stares vacantly up at the sky. Contemplates cussing out the Phoenix Witch for the shit job she’s done at protecting people and wonders if it would have any effect. Probably not, he thinks. He tugs his vest collar up and his fingers stay there, messing with the frayed edges of fabric and the faded, peeling paint stains. He needs to do something, anything, he thinks, just to get the buzzing loop of frustration-silver-reflecting-off-triggers-hopelessness-frustration out of his damn head. Repeatedly smashing his head against the diner wall would work, he thinks, but he’s fucked himself up enough lately, and Jet doesn’t need to deal with him even more. Could get drunk outta his mind, but there isn’t much liquor left. He huffs in irritation and slowly gets up, scowling at his sore muscles.

He cracks his knuckles, goes around to the back of the Trans-Am, and opens the trunk. He swears that trunk’s gotta be fuckin’ magic somehow, or else the Phoenix Witch blessed it, or it’s Destroya’s bastard child, because there is way too much stuff in it than would normally fit in a shitty beat-up pre-Analog Wars ride. He keeps rummaging through the piles of crumpled magazines and empty cans and wrappers, though, and eventually pulls out what he’s looking for. It’s a guitar, or it was one once, and it’s covered in tape and stickers and spray paint, with glued-together cracks and maybe a missing string, but it’s still real. 

He handles it carefully, cradling it in one arm as he slams the trunk shut and returns to his spot, sitting on the ground and hiding on the other side of the car. His fingers aren’t meant for music: they’re calloused and scarred, perfect for making bombs or offing Dracs, but when they touch the strings they’re gentle and a bit clumsy. He doesn’t really know how to play, he only has the thing because he saw Dr. D tossing it out back into a dumpster and thought maybe it was a waste. There were some articles in an old ‘zine he’d seen that talked about chords and positions and fingerings, and maybe some of that rubbed off on him, but he doesn’t know shit about technique or theory. He just plays whatever sounds nice, rough fingers shakily shifting from fret to fret. There’s no melody worth speaking of, but a comforting rhythm slowly finds its way out of the untuned notes.  
It’s new; the feeling that he’s making something, maybe even making something beautiful. He lets out a long exhale, tries to breath out all the tension and and frustration and sadness and send it off into the dark sky with the quiet wavering notes. His fingers sting, but it doesn’t really hurt. He doesn’t believe in anything, except maybe Poison and Kobra and Jet, but on these nights, sometimes, it’s nice to tilt your head back and get lost in the stars. Maybe the Phoenix Witch isn’t doing as bad of a job as he thought.


End file.
